


A Human Capacity

by mutation



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (mostly), Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Near Death Experiences, connor is a little traumatized, hank needs Rest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-12 13:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15341277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutation/pseuds/mutation
Summary: Connor is seriously injured, and Hank isn't about to let him shut down.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A couple things to note before reading:
> 
> -I extended the timeline of the game from a few days to a few months, because while I was completely ready to adopt Connor a day after meeting him, I think it would take Hank a little bit longer. Chapter-wise, the story takes place shortly after "Public Enemy"
> 
> -Also went ahead and made androids sturdier than the average JCPenny's mannequin
> 
> Anyway, this fic came about because my friend mentioned wanting to read something where Connor nearly dies, and I'm a sucker for found family. It's only the second fic I've ever written, so I hope I was able to do the characters justice!

The bright blue snow beneath his feet reminded Hank that he had to hurry. One careful step at a time, he lurched towards the police station in the near distance, his breathing labored from exertion. Connor leaned heavily against his right side, keeping himself upright but unable to do much else as rivulets of thirium trickled down his torso, leaving a trail in their wake. His left arm rested over Hank’s shoulders as the two made their way through the thickening snowfall; the right ended in a sparking stump near Connor’s elbow, stray wires dripping droplets of blue blood. 

On taking another step, Connor’s shoe scraped against a hidden patch of ice. He stumbled, and Hank reflexively tightened his hold to keep him steady, wincing as the action aggravated his own injuries. When he relaxed again, his hand felt wet. 

“Sorry,” Connor murmured. He kept his gaze fixed downward, the streetlights above highlighting the tracks of blue running down his face and draining his skin of any tinge of color. “I guess I lost my balance.” 

Hank didn’t need to comment on the implication of that statement—that’d been the first time Connor slipped since they’d left the crime scene. Instead, he aimed for an encouraging tone and said, “We’re almost to the station. The guys there will fix you up, good as new.” Connor only nodded, and Hank’s eyes lingered on the steady red glow of the indicator on his temple, as if it would blink out the moment he looked away. 

It’d seemed like a legitimate tip; and maybe it even had been, once. A possible deviant working as a mechanic in eastern Detroit, plus the hint that soon it’d be using its tools for more violent purposes. When Connor had said he wanted to check it out, Hank almost argued, but with every other deviant they’d found either escaped or dead, taking the chance looked like their best option. 

Five people in ski masks awaited them in an alley outside the scene. Humans or deviants, Hank couldn’t say, but they’d come more than prepared. Ten minutes later, they’d left Hank sprawled and groaning in the snow. Connor lay in a silent heap some twenty feet away. A thin trail of thirium revealed how far the group had dragged him before deciding he wasn’t worth the effort. Before he could register that his body was moving, Hank was at his side, turning him over, praying he had a pulse. 

It’d taken a moment for him to remember that Connor’s skin felt frigid and lifeless because, as he kept reminding him, machines weren’t alive in the first place. 

Now, the cold had long since made Hank’s extremities go completely numb, despite the hot stabs of pain that bolted throughout his body with every movement. A head wound had reopened at some point, the blood creeping down his forehead and stinging his eyes. He ignored it as he half-carried Connor up the stairs and through the glass doors of the building. 

“I need someone who can do repairs!” Hank barked in the general direction of the front desk. Two or three of the officers who’d remained late that night looked towards them, but at the sight of blue blood, any initial hint of concern vanished. He forced himself to bite back a seething remark for Connor’s sake. 

One of the android secretaries, at least, appeared happy to help. Her LED flickered yellow, then returned to blue. “I have managed to contact a technician who is still on the premises. Please escort the damaged model to room 209-E,” she said, smiling. “Is there anything else I can help you with? It appears you are in need of medical attention.” 

“I’m fine,” Hank replied, shaking his head. He headed towards the elevators, sparing a glance in Connor’s direction every few seconds. They crossed through the station without incident; most had gone home by this hour, and the few who still sat at their desks seemed too preoccupied with work to notice the two of them limping by. 

Soon enough, the doors of the elevator slid open to let them into one of the basement levels. As they started down one of the halls, Hank gave Connor a nudge. “You still with me?” he asked, looking doubtfully at the makeshift bandage he’d tied around Connor’s waist. The once white undershirt now sported a large, wet, cobalt stain. 

Connor glanced at him and offered a tight nod in response. He seemed concentrated on the effort of walking. Hank tried to tell himself he was just imagining that his movements had gotten stiffer since they made it inside. Once he started down that line of thinking, he knew from experience, it’d be difficult to stop. 

As Hank squinted at the numbers printed beside each door, he noticed a motion out of the corner of his eye. When he turned his head, Connor was pressing down on the bandage, his mouth set in a thin line. 

Slowing to a stop, Hank squeezed the wrist he was holding to get Connor’s attention again. “Hey, what’s wrong? Do you need a break?” he said, dread beginning to pool in his stomach. They’d come too far for him to die here, one stretch of hallway away from being saved. 

When he responded, Connor kept his eyes fixed on the floor. “It’s nothing,” he said. “We need to keep going.” 

After years of hunting down and interrogating criminals, Hank could tell when someone was fighting to keep their voice even and free of any incriminating emotions. It took a practiced liar to do it well. And in this case, Connor wasn’t a good liar. 

Hank watched him for a moment longer, searching for any sign that he was going to collapse from his injuries. Finding none, he said, “We’ll be there soon. Just try to hold on till then.” 

If the words helped Connor to relax at all, he showed no outward sign of it. 

Not long after stopping, they located the right room. It ended up being smaller than Hank expected. He managed to guide Connor inside and, with some effort, to lay onto a sort of metallic exam table. 

An array of tools and trays sat at the ready along the room’s light gray walls. A white counter adorned one wall, accompanied by matching cabinets above it to house more equipment. Although most androids in the police force usually maintained perimeters or monitored a building’s exits rather than pursuing criminals, it still managed to be a high-risk occupation. Rather than spend money and time shipping out a model every time it needed repairs, the Detroit police station had been outfitted with the necessary tools on-site. 

“I guess now we wait,” Hank said. For all he knew, talking was making Connor worse, so he resisted the urge to ask how he was feeling again. After a few seconds, he began to amble around the room, examining some of the tools with his hands in his pockets. 

Connor stirred, prompting Hank to turn around. He hadn’t moved from the table, but his brows were knitted together in what looked like frustration as he stared at the ceiling. 

“What is it?” Hank asked, checking over him for any indications of a new wound. From what he could tell through the tears in Connor’s clothing, everything appeared the same as when they’d left the car and begun walking to the station. 

“I’m trying to reroute power,” Connor answered, keeping his eyes straight ahead. As he spoke, his voice fluctuated. “My legs...just lost their functionality.” 

It seemed like he wanted to say more, but his mouth snapped shut as his eyelids began fluttering. His body jerked once, then went stiff. 

Alarmed, Hank surged forward, grabbing onto his arm. “Connor, what’s happening?” he demanded. He received no answer. Looking up, Hank skimmed over the tools in the room, desperate to recognize a single one that might help. None stood out. A lone chart on the wall pointed out where each biocomponent could be located on the average android, but offered no solutions should one malfunction. 

Hank’s chest felt tight. Ignoring the feeling, he shook Connor. “Come on, don’t you give up yet,” he pleaded. “We’re almost there, dammit!” 

There was still no indication that Connor could hear him. Running out of options, Hank flung himself towards the cabinets on the opposite side of the room. He threw each one open and searched the insides. But the area had been set up for trained android technicians, not cops who hadn’t been in a science class since high school. 

The counter yielded the same results. No matter how hard he scrutinized the tools and equipment he found, he couldn’t make sense of their function. Hank’s shoulders slumped as his uselessness dawned on him. Turning around, he approached the table again. 

When he did, Connor’s eyes were shut. His body had gone lax again. 

For a moment, all the strength left Hank’s body. “Connor…?” he tried, edging forward. No response. One glance at Connor’s temple would tell him what he needed. Somehow the prospect made Hank feel sick. Taking a slow, measured breath, the same way he did before entering a particularly brutal crime scene, he forced himself to look. 

Connor’s light hadn’t been extinguished just yet. 

“Jesus,” Hank exhaled, letting his head drop. He held onto the table’s edge while the feeling returned to his legs. “You really know how to scare me, you know that?” 

Of course, Connor remained unresponsive. Unsure of what else to do, Hank kept talking. “You know, I used to hate androids,” he said, looking at the floor. “I remember when CyberLife released its first model. Always gave me the heebie jeebies. Of course, they weren’t like you back then.” 

Letting out a slow breath, Hank released the table to stand up and lean against the counter behind him. His injuries ached. “I knew people who had androids. I guess I never really got over the way looking at that first one made me feel. And then, after…” Hank paused. Lifting his eyes back to Connor, silent and still with only a small red glow signalling that he still had a chance, Hank felt something tug at his heart. 

“Guess some things changed over the past couple months, huh?” he murmured, half to himself. 

Minutes went by. No one had thought to furnish the room with a clock, and Hank had never been in the habit of wearing a watch. It felt like he’d given into the urge to rest his eyes mere seconds ago when he heard, in a weak voice, “Lieutenant…?” 

His eyes snapped open. Connor had turned his head to see him, a confused frown on his face. “Were you...asleep?” he asked, voice a hint too mechanical. By this point, it took visible effort for him to talk, judging by the way his brows knitted together in concentration. 

Hank came to stand by the metallic table again, unable to help a small smile of relief. “You gave me a real scare, there, Connor,” he said. His expression faded as it occurred to him that it could happen again. “You wanna tell me what the hell that was all about? What happened to you?” 

Connor’s confusion only seemed to increase. “Happened?” 

Now Hank frowned. “You had some kind of...episode, or short-circuit, I don’t know. It put you out of commission for a few minutes,” he said, watching as the confusion in Connor’s eyes morphed into alarm. When he said nothing else, Hank tried, “Don’t you remember?” 

He shook his head. “I was...talking to you...” Connor said, “...and then…” He held Hank’s gaze for a few seconds more, eyes searching. Then, apparently finding no answers, Connor turned to lay his head flat on the table again. 

Silence settled over them like the snow falling outside. Hank remained where he stood so he could keep an eye on Connor’s LED, trying to ignore the mangled mess of exposed wires halfway down his arm. In a distant part of his mind, he wondered why the technician hadn’t shown up yet. How long had it been? 

Connor had shut his eyes, but of his own volition this time. Watching him, Hank reflected on the close calls they’d had since their assignment to this investigation. Or, being more accurate, the close calls Connor had experienced. Somehow he always ended up being the one with a bullet wound or a busted bone, or whatever androids had. Things Hank hadn’t endured until at least a year on the force. 

And now this. 

For a second, Hank hesitated, then reached out to put a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid,” he said. “They’ll take care of you here.” 

At first, Connor didn’t reply, and Hank figured he was trying to conserve what little energy he had left. Then, quietly enough that he had to strain to hear, Connor spoke. 

“Hank, I—I don’t want to die.” His voice sounded grainy and broken, as though the module for it had been pulled out of a garbage disposal. Moving as little as he could, Connor met Hank’s eyes. 

His knees nearly buckled at the sight. All at once, everything became too familiar—the metallic table, the fluorescent lights, and the look in Connor’s eyes of someone isolated amongst the stars, a fraying lifeline his single hope against drifting forever through a black and empty expanse. 

“You’re not dying here.” Hank tried aiming for a reassuring tone, but his voice wavered. He attempted to force the tumult of emotions down as he squeezed Connor’s shoulder. When he spoke again, he sounded more confident. “I promise you that, alright?” 

Some of the panic left Connor’s eyes, and Hank felt his shoulders relax. When he let go again, Connor resumed looking at the panels of the ceiling. The LED on his temple shifted from red to yellow. 

Sighing, Hank leaned against the counter behind him and crossed his arms. He’d wondered how Connor was holding up after what’d happened at Stratford Tower a couple weeks ago. Even if he had tried to brush it off and resume the investigation, balling his trembling hands into fists and pretending not to see the dead android at his feet, Hank could tell something had changed in Connor that day. For all his talk of machines, he never seemed to act like one. 

The door opened then, and a short woman wearing a great and white uniform walking in. She had her dark hair tucked into a neat bun, revealing no LED on her temple. Smiling, she extended a hand. Hank took it. 

“Nice to meet you, Lieutenant,” she said. Faint bags stood out underneath her eyes, but she appeared sharp and alert. “I’m Evelyn, one of the resident android technicians. You got lucky; I was just about to go home for the day.” 

Hank introduced himself in turn as she approached the table, where Connor was watching her with a mixture of relief and wariness. Leaning over him to survey the damage, Evelyn raised her eyebrows. “The RK800, huh? Looks like they really did a number on him,” she said, turning to pick up a pair of forceps from a nearby tray. “If you don’t mind, could you tell me what happened?” 

While Evelyn went to work examining what Connor needed repaired, Hank explained the attack. “I know we shot at least one of them, but they still got away. Did something to the car, too. Fuckin’ thing broke down a little over a mile from the station. Thought I was gonna freeze my ass off before we got here.” 

She paused and looked up. “With how much thirium he’s lost, I’m surprised the RK800 could walk,” she said. “Why not get a cab?” 

“Well, that’s…” Hank made a vague gesture. “I didn’t know how long one of those things would’ve taken, and Connor was…” He broke off, frowning at the look on Evelyn’s face, like he’d just divulged an eccentric interest and she was deciding if she still wanted to be associated with him. “Look, I just don’t want CyberLife coming for my ass because I broke their shiny new prototype, alright?” 

Although the look remained, Evelyn refrained from commenting further. Instead, she resumed her examination, lifting Connor’s arm to shuck off his jacket. When it came off, she let out a low whistle. “You can see right through him. These guys you ran into weren’t kidding around, were they?” she said. 

Hank’s eyes widened. He circled around to the left for a better look, standing next to Evelyn, and felt his heart clench. An entire chunk had been ripped away near Connor’s rib cage, revealing the network of wires and thirium veins that kept him running. The frayed edges around the wound sparked intermittently. When Hank looked to Connor for some explanation, he found him continuing his observation of the ceiling, his expression betraying no emotion. 

But that made sense, Hank realized. He must have known already and chose not to mention it. 

Evelyn’s voice brought him back to the present. “His vital components avoided getting hit, which is why he can still walk around,” she said, putting the forceps aside. She turned to face Hank. “It doesn’t look promising, though.” 

On the table, Connor noticeably stiffened. Hank’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?” he asked, crossing his arms. “Are you tellin’ me you can’t fix him?” 

She shook her head. “I  _can_ fix him, but he’s got some pretty extensive internal damage. It’d be cheaper to just scrap this one and have CyberLife send you a new model,” Evelyn said. Gesturing with her hands, she continued, “Think of a car. If you get in a wreck and your engine gets destroyed, plus you lose half the exterior, you wouldn’t pay the price of a new car or more to get it fixed, right? You’d get a new car.” Here, she waved towards Connor. “He’s the wrecked car.” 

Hank opened his mouth to speak, but Evelyn turned to head towards the door. “Now, you’ll have to fill out the requisition form for a new RK800, but it’ll be quicker than trying to repair this one.” She gave him a repentant smile. “I can at least go and request it for you so you didn’t wait around in here for nothing.” 

“Now hold on just a—” Hank started, but the door slid shut and Evelyn was gone. 

For a few seconds, he stood there and stared at the closed door, trying to process what he’d just heard. The image of Connor being dumped into some garbage heap like any old broken-down computer made Hank’s stomach churn. And yet, he was forced to admit, he wouldn’t have had an issue with it only a couple of months ago. 

A weak tug on his sleeve cut that train of thought short. When Hank turned, it struck him that Connor looked exhausted, somehow. Like each second was a battle to remain conscious. Yet his eyes still burned as he pleaded, “Don’t...replace. I can still…” 

Connor’s grip loosened, his gaze losing focus. The hand that’d been clinging to Hank’s coat began to fall. 

Hank grabbed it, as if by holding onto Connor’s hand he could keep him alive through sheer force of will.  “Hey, hey, you stay with me, son,” he said, leaning over to meet Connor’s eyes. “No one’s replacing anybody, you got that?” 

He waited until Connor gave a weak nod before stepping back. Once again, Hank scanned the room, setting his mouth in a hard line. Technician be damned; if she refused to help, he’d fix Connor himself. By his guess, they had about ten minutes before she came back with the requisition form. “Alright, I’m gonna need your help with this,” he said. “Half of this junk looks like it could be from another goddamn planet, for all I know. I need you to tell me what to do.” 

For once, Connor listened. Turning his head to see the countertop, he managed to use his remaining arm to point out what looked like a white, miniature blowtorch. “Thirium leaking. Need to...stop it,” he explained. 

After retrieving the tool from a metal tray, Hank returned to the table and helped Connor to peel the makeshift bandage from his torso. It came away with the sticky sound of a blood-soaked corpse being lifted from a linoleum floor. The shirt maintained a slight curve in its shape after it’d been removed. Hank tossed it aside. 

Back when he’d wrapped his undershirt around the wound, he’d been operating by the light of a single, distant street lamp. Now, seeing the extent of Connor’s injuries under fluorescent lighting, Hank could only stare. 

Carnage came with the job. He’d long-since accepted and adjusted to that. At a crime scene, he could distance himself from the victim, focus on gathering facts and connecting them. Even the worst cases, involving kids or acts no human being should be capable of, hadn’t wormed their way into his heart and broken him. It was how he’d become a lieutenant. 

But when you were looking at a fist-sized hole in someone you knew and cared for, things tended to be different. 

“Jesus, Connor,” Hank whispered. He reached towards the wound, fingers hovering above a ragged edge. “You should’ve mentioned this. What was I supposed to do if you bled out halfway to the station?” he said more loudly, unable to keep a trace of anger out of his tone. 

The moment the words were out, he regretted it. Connor said nothing. Sighing, Hank reminded himself that he wasn’t the only one afraid, here. He shot Connor an apologetic look before turning back to finish looking over the damage. 

Unlike human blood, thirium possessed no method of clotting or scabbing, and as a result, it’d been oozing out of the wound in Connor’s torso over the past hour. It looked like whoever dealt the blow had aimed for his thirium regulator, according to the anatomy chart on the wall, but they’d been off the mark. Instead, the weapon had left a shallow gouge in its wake. Clusters of flickering wires hung limp around the edges of the injury, where Connor’s normal skin tone receded to CyberLife white. Hank could glimpse the edge of something bright blue and beating amongst the arrays of cables and thirium vessels, and silently thanked whatever cosmic power might be watching that Connor hadn’t been hit a few inches to the right. 

A quick examination of Connor’s other side proved more promising. Despite the earlier comment of being able to see through him, the smaller wound there wasn’t bleeding. A scattering of minor cuts stood out across the rest of his torso. Hank could pick out several scratches on his face, too. 

“Okay,” he said, brandishing the blow torch, or whatever it was. “How do I do this?” 

It took Connor a few seconds to respond. “To the right. Cracked artery. Pull on...trigger,” he rasped in a mechanical voice. “Hurry.” 

Nodding, Hank leaned down, his heart hammering. He wished he had one of those surgical headlights he’d seen on TV, but for now he would have to make do with a penlight the technician had left on the table. 

On multiple occasions, Hank had commented on the way androids didn’t breathe, how that particular feature held a spot near the top of his mental list of things he disliked about them. Now, as he searched for the fracture within Connor’s apparatus, he considered how much worse this would be with the constant motion of inhaling and exhaling. 

Larger thirium arteries emitted a slight glow and, thanks to that, the damaged one stood out. A small part had chipped away, and a web of fine lines spread out from the gap for several inches. It continued trickling a thin stream of blue blood like a faucet that hadn’t been turned completely off. Trying to be careful, Hank lowered the nozzle of the blow torch so it lined up with the leak and held down the trigger. 

As it turned out, the thing wasn’t a blow torch at all. Instead of a flame, it expelled a thick, transparent substance. 

“Alright, so what do I do with this?” Hank said. He thanked his police training for the way his hands remained steady despite the anxiety closing around his throat. “Is it some kinda glue?” 

“Sort of,” Connor replied. “Seal...leak. Then press down.” 

Hank did as instructed. The stuff stuck to his fingers, but spread across the cracked artery without resistance. When he pressed on it, Connor’s body jerked. 

He yanked his hand back with a stab of guilt. “Did I hurt you?” Hank asked, glancing between Connor and the still-leaking thirium. It took him a moment to realize what he’d said. 

Instead of correcting him, Connor said, “Careful.” Then, with a good amount of effort, he managed to lift his head the smallest amount to meet Hank’s eyes. Where Hank had expected to see caution or even irritation, he found kindness. 

“I trust you, Hank.” 

Some of the guilt and worry faded, soothed by a warm feeling that spread throughout his chest. Hank gave him a small nod and pressed against where he’d spread the substance again, using less pressure this time. Beneath his fingers, he felt the area begin heating. When Hank started to worry that it might become hot enough to burn, the temperature leveled out. 

He remained like that for what he guessed might have been a couple minutes at the most. Every few seconds, he glanced at the door, listening for approaching footsteps. At a quicker rate than it’d heated up, the surface beneath Hank’s fingers cooled. When he lifted them away, the artery didn’t leak. Any traces of damage had vanished. 

“You gotta be shittin’ me. It’s that easy?” Hank exclaimed, looking at the tool in wonder. 

“For...small things,” Connor said. “Glad it worked.” 

Hank frowned, turning to see him. “What, you mean you didn’t actually know if it would—” The look on his face cut that sentence short. “Right. What do you need next?” 

“Thirium. Check for...blue pouches.” Connor’s voice hadn’t regained its regular pitch, but it contained less panic than before. 

It didn’t take long for Hank to locate what he needed; his frenzied search of the room earlier hadn’t been in vain, after all. Returning to Connor’s side, he turned one of the pouches over in his hands. From what he could tell, it looked the same as what he’d see in a regular hospital room, minus the difference in color. 

“So,” he said, still examining the object in his hands, “do we need to set up an IV?” Already, Hank had begun to plan on how to prevent the technician from returning to the room. If a thirium transfusion worked the same as blood did with humans, Connor would need at least an hour, if not more. 

He was considering his options when Connor said, “Sorry...could you...help me?” 

On the table, he’d been struggling to use his good arm to sit up. Hank hurried to place an arm around Connor’s shoulders, lifting him into an upright position. At first, it seemed like he might be able to remain that way on his own, and Hank took a step back. The second he did, though, Connor began to sway, his LED flickering from yellow to red. 

“Okay, I’ve got you,” Hank said, wrapping an arm around him again. “Just take it slow.” 

“Thank you,” Connor replied softly. The indicator on his temple circled back to yellow as he sagged against Hank’s chest, letting him support his weight. 

They remained that way for a moment. Had Hank not known any better, he would’ve thought that Connor had fallen asleep. Then again, maybe he had. Androids needed to recharge on a regular basis, similar to humans. Who was to say they had no system in place to make sure they didn’t run themselves dry? 

Harmless in any other situation, maybe, but not when he’d lost so much blood. 

Just in case, Hank squeezed his shoulder. “Connor?” 

The action caused him to stir. “Sorry,” Connor muttered. “I’m awake.” Without another word, he reached out and plucked the thirium pouch from Hank’s hands. Then, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, he worked one of the nozzles open and stuck it in his mouth. 

Hank had to force himself not to recoil in disgust, lest Connor fall flat on the table. Instead, he groaned and averted his eyes, opting to fix his gaze on the row of cabinets. “Is that really the only way to do this? Just...drinking that shit like it’s a milkshake?” 

After a pause, during which Hank tried to ignore the faint crinkling sound of the pouch losing fluid, Connor answered. “It is...the most efficient way,” he said, less strained than before. Already, some of the mechanical tone had gone from his voice. He finished drinking from the first bag and set it down on the table. 

At his expectant look, Hank sighed and handed over another. “Just...do what you gotta do,” he grumbled. Then, frowning, he thought of something. “How is that not leaking out of the hole in your gut? I mean, yeah, I fixed one thing, but you’ve still got…” Hank gestured to the wound, “...all that.” 

“My veins are capable of sealing themselves off, should they become damaged. The thirium in my body is then redirected elsewhere,” Connor said, voice finally returning to its regular tone. He lowered the half-emptied bag as he spoke; his mouth looked like he’d swallowed a tube of blue food coloring. “Unfortunately, the same technology proved ineffective on anything larger.” Redirecting his attention to the end of the table, Connor moved one foot, then the other. “It would seem that my legs are regaining their function.” 

“You think you’ll be able to walk?” Hank asked, eyeing the door. 

Connor got a far-off look in his eyes for a handful of seconds as he ran a diagnostic, something he’d done on several occasions before. Then, “It’ll take a little longer before I can move on my own. Since I manually redirected power before, certain biocomponents are taking more time to restore themselves.” He raised the thirium pouch again to resume drinking. “By my estimate, I should be mostly functional in—” 

He didn’t get to finish speaking as Hank hauled him off the table and to his feet. 

“Lieutenant?” Connor said, eyebrows raised. The man in question didn’t answer at first, slipping Connor’s arm around his shoulders in a similar position as when they walked in. 

“Listen, we need to get you the fuck outta here before that Evelyn woman comes back and tries to throw you out with the garbage tonight,” Hank explained. Glancing at the table, he used his free hand to grab another bag of thirium and jam it into his coat pocket. “We can take one of the cruisers.” 

Hank half-expected a protest, but none came. When he looked, Connor was watching him with a curious expression. He decided not to question it. “You ready?” 

Connor nodded. 

“Good. Let’s go."


	2. Chapter 2

Of all the possible obstacles to stand in their way that night, this one seemed the most insulting. Hank repressed a shiver as his keys jingled, fighting against the near-frozen bolt on his door. In what kind of world were machines indistinguishable from humans, and locks indistinguishable from the mid-1900’s?

Connor lingered behind him on the stoop, remaining hand hanging onto the sleeve of Hank’s coat for balance. For the first couple of minutes, he’d kept from saying anything. Now, though, as Hank’s stream of muttered profanity worsened, he peered around his shoulder. “Do you require assistance, Lieutenant?”

“I think I’m capable of unlocking the door to my own _house,_ Connor.” The prospect of another broken window gave him a fresh surge of determination. With one more violent twist, the key turned at last.

Inside, the warm air began to return the feeling to Hank’s fingertips. Sumo thumped his tail from where he lay in the living room, head raised in search of a possible snack. As Hank went about removing his coat, he noted Connor standing a few feet away, as if awaiting orders.

“Go on, make yourself at home,” Hank said, pulling off a shoe. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Connor complied, making his way to the couch with slow, measured steps. He paused to pat Sumo on the head before sitting down.

During the ride back, Connor had finished the rest of the smuggled thirium and updated Hank on his status. While they’d eliminated the danger of him shutting down, he would need more repairs before regaining his full strength. It had been a while since he recharged, too. Other than that, though, Connor had remained silent, gazing out the window at the falling snow. It hadn’t let up all evening, clumps like raw cotton drifting down to bury living and synthetic alike beneath a featureless field of white.

Now, sitting on the edge of the couch with his hand placed flat on his lap, Connor wore the same pensive expression he’d had in the car. Hank approached and stood in front of him.

“The cushions aren’t gonna bite, you know,” he quipped. Connor didn’t even attempt to give a reaction; in fact, he wouldn’t look up at all. The companionable smirk fell from Hank’s face.

Sighing, he took a seat next to Connor, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Alright, what’s going on?” he asked. The sight of Connor’s LED didn’t reassure him. Despite the danger being over, it had yet to transition from yellow to blue.

Several seconds ticked by. Then, in a quiet voice, Connor said, “Why would you do so much just to save me?” When he met Hank’s eyes again, he looked uncertain. And almost, Hank realized, afraid.

As if his thoughts would forever remain unsaid if not voiced now, Connor pressed on. “I’m—a _machine_. In the event that I am destroyed, I can be replaced,” he stated, hand clenching into a fist. The practiced words, usually spoken with the same confidence as his name and purpose, now came tinged with doubt. His gaze shifted to the ground. “What I experienced...You shouldn’t have listened to me, Hank. Machines don’t fear death. It’s a human sentiment.”

The implication of that statement hung in the air.

Hank took some time to consider his response. “Look,” he started, “just to be clear, I don’t give half a shit what you think I should or shouldn’t have done. You’re not just some piece of equipment. I wasn’t about to give up on you.” He almost pointed out that, had Connor been unconscious, he would’ve carried him if that’s what it took. Rather than that, though, Hank scowled at him and said, “Don’t look so surprised.”

Connor ducked his head in apology, a small smile on his face. “Sorry. I was thinking of what you said two months ago. Something about not wanting to work with me because you hate androids so much?” he said with a note of teasing.

“Guess I never really apologized for that, huh,” Hank replied, wincing.

Shaking his head, Connor leaned back against the couch cushions. “It doesn’t matter. When I first arrived at the station, I was prepared to meet with some...resistance,” he said. “Besides, things have changed since then. Or else you have a strange way of showing your hatred, Lieutenant.”

That earned a half-smile from Hank as he mused on how he’d acted that first day. It was a miracle of CyberLife programming that he didn’t get punched in the nose. “It was still an asshole thing of me to say,” he decided. “So, uh...sorry about that.”

Connor hummed, a distant look in his eyes.

A while back, Hank would have left things there. The adrenaline rush had worn off in the car, and at this point he was avoiding all the clocks in the house for fear of what they would read. His entire body felt like one large bruise.

Looking at Connor now, though, he recognized the demeanor of someone who’s awoken after a storm and found themselves adrift at sea. Without guidance, he would drown.

“Listen, about what you said before...I don’t know much about how you androids work, or what goes on in that head of yours,” Hank said, getting his attention. “But wanting to live isn’t a bad thing. Even if you say you can be replaced, or whatever the hell it is they do, you aren’t exactly the same, right? I think anyone would worry about that.”

“Androids aren’t alive,” Connor responded, his expression becoming clouded. “If I were to be destroyed and lose a portion of my memories, I should only care about how it would affect the investigation. Nothing else.” He hesitated, fingers drumming on his knee. “I used to understand that, before...”

“...Before Stratford Tower,” Hank finished.

Connor’s jaw tightened. He nodded. “Something about feeling that android die must have disrupted my program. I’d suspected it before, but now I have proof. When I thought that I was going to shut down...It scared me,” he admitted, sounding ashamed. “I don’t know how a defective machine can continue to be useful to you.”

“Goddammit, Connor, you really think that’s all I care about? How useful you are?” Hank snapped. At Connor’s startled face, he forced himself to use a calmer tone. “Anyone in their right mind wants to live long enough to see the sun tomorrow. Some of the best people I’ve worked with out in the field have all been terrified out of their minds that they’d never get to go home again. There’s nothing defective about it.”

“What about you, Lieutenant?”

Hank grunted. “I’m not in my right mind. I was once, though. A long time ago.”

“Then how did you manage it? Going into the field and knowing it might kill you?”

The question gave him a thought. “Didn’t they program you with a protocol for this? Some kind of emergency coping mechanism?” Hank said, looking at him in confusion. “You’re in as much danger as any of us, hell, sometimes more. They had to have considered it.”

Connor shook his head. “I wasn’t designed to fail. Programming me with such a mechanism would be acknowledging that it could happen. It would be like giving an AX400 a protocol in case it decides to poison the head of the house.”

Not a bad idea, Hank thought, but he let the matter drop. “Well, everyone has different ways of dealing with it,” he said. “Some folks pray about it. Others try to only focus on what’s in front of them and ignore all the what-ifs. Once, I knew a guy who carried around a rabbit’s foot for luck.”

“And...how did you cope with it, Lieutenant?” Connor repeated, voice still tinged with uncertainty.

When Hank glanced over, Connor was watching him as if whatever he said next would be etched into his memory forever. So, folding his hands, he stifled the instinctual deflection that’d been forming on his tongue and resolved to give him the truth.

His first thought went back to the day he’d brought his son home after all the adoption paperwork had gone through. Looking down at his sleeping face poking out from the white blanket in his arms, Hank had felt the full weight of what was once a vague “it’ll happen someday” becoming reality. It’d been something he considered when he joined the police force; any officer could provide for a small family without struggling, and he’d never had expensive taste.

It would’ve been a good answer. Logical, which Connor would appreciate. Who wouldn’t put their life on the line if it meant their child wouldn’t go hungry? But, thinking back, Hank had to acknowledge it wasn’t the real reason. Hundreds of other jobs could have given him the same paycheck for half the risk. When he first walked into the academy decades ago, it’d been for an ideal, and that same ideal had carried him through every confrontation and near-death experience since.

“Guess I always thought about what mattered most to me,” Hank finally answered. “If I could be out there, risking my life, and it meant the people I cared about would be safe, then it was worth it.”

The room gave way to silence, save for the quiet sound of Sumo’s breathing as he slept. Hank couldn’t remember the last time he’d reflected on his earliest days with the police. The version of himself who’d worked through the day and well into the night may as well be a stranger now. In fact, he thought with a wry smile, he hadn’t been so different from Connor. Talented, stubborn, and above all, naive.

Hank might have lost himself in his memories, then, had it not been for Connor speaking up and drawing his attention.

“I think I might be able to understand that,” he murmured.

Not the response he’d been expecting. Hank turned to find Connor looking at him, a gentle smile on his face. He felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out and ruffle his hair.

Instead, he cleared his throat to fight a rising tightness and said, “That’s good, then.” Leave it to an android to ruin his lifelong commitment to remaining dead inside. Regaining his composure, Hank continued. “Listen, uh...I don’t say this kind of thing often, but you’ve been doing fine the way you are. I wouldn’t worry about any of this,” he waved a hand, “fear, or death, or anything messing up your program. You’re a good kid, Connor. I’ve seen that myself.”

This time, Connor had no argument, his smile broadening the smallest amount. For the first time that night, his LED circled back to blue.

With that, Hank stood up from the couch and stretched. His body protested, each injury he’d received that night stinging anew. Wincing, he wondered if he still had a first-aid kit somewhere.

“You know, Hank,” Connor said, remaining on the couch, “while my physical model may be less than a year old, my programmed age—”

“Ah, let me have this,” Hank cut him off, turning around to face him. “I’m still probably twice as old as you.” Looking him over, he recalled what Connor had told him in the car. Just because he was stable didn’t mean was fully recovered. “So, what else do you need to get all fixed up again?”

“I could list the components I need, but I doubt you would be able to obtain any of them at this hour of the night. Besides, some of the repairs I need are more detailed in nature,” he replied. “I know you mean well, Lieutenant, but I believe visiting a professional would be the better option.”

Hank nodded, wishing he could do more. Most of the thirium on Connor’s clothes and skin had begun fading, but he still looked like he’d been through hell, shirt torn to rags and dangling wires where an arm should be. The sight made him want to hunt down the ones who’d attacked them and see how they’d like a taste of their own medicine.

“Come on, get up,” Hank said. He lingered nearby in case Connor needed help walking, and then led him to the bathroom. Turning on the sink, he handed over a washcloth and explained, “We can at least work on getting you cleaned up.”

Leaving him to wash off, Hank headed across the hall into his bedroom. Ignoring the variety of shirts and pants littered across the floor, he approached the closet door and slid it open. A myriad of patterned shirts greeted him, and he began to rifle through them. Every so often he would pull one out, grimace, and hang it back up. It wasn’t until Hank reached the far back of the closet that he discovered a t-shirt that didn’t come with an XL tag attached.

He gave it a grim once-over; the entire thing was an eye-bleeding neon green. A blue, cartoon fish winked at him, its grin far too wide for its face. Above it, garish orange text outlined in black advertised that the shirt had originated at Mick’s Seafood Shanty. Another line below proclaimed, “Fish so good you’ll FLIP!!!”

It’d likely been sitting at the back of the closet since something possessed him to buy it ten or fifteen years back.

It was the smallest shirt he owned.

Hank returned to the bathroom, where Connor was busy wiping thirium from his face. Offering the clothing, he said, “Here. You can borrow this for now.”

Pausing, Connor lowered the washcloth to the sink. He hesitated before extending a hand to accept the shirt, his eyebrows knitting together in perplexity before he’d even unfolded it to reveal the true monstrosity.

“What, are androids all fashion experts now?” Hank asked, feeling defensive all of a sudden.

“Forced” didn’t even begin to cover the smile he received in response. “Not at all, Lieutenant,” Connor said far too sweetly. “I was only trying to estimate when you would have ever purchased an item like this.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Hank grumbled, already beginning to trudge away. “Just wear the fuckin’ thing.” He shut the door behind himself.

Standing in the hallway, he cast a doubtful look towards the couch, where Sumo had hopped up for a snooze. When was the last time he had gone through and cleaned the cushions, again? Shaking his head, Hank proceeded back to his bedroom. The floor looked two or three months overdue for a good vacuuming, but for now, he settled for tossing the dirty clothes strewn about in the general direction of a laundry hamper.

He had just finished changing into hoodie and sweatpants when he heard the water turn off in the bathroom, followed shortly by “Hank…?”

“In here,” he called, moving to the bed to shake out his comforter.

Connor appeared in the doorway, hair mussed and damp, his face clear of any remaining thirium or dirt. The shirt, practically glowing in contrast to his pale skin, looked like it could have fit two of him without stretching.

For a moment, the image gave Hank a sense of deja vu. Already, he’d begun to form a familiar phrase: _Don’t worry, you’ll grow into it._

Something must have shown on his face, because Connor said, “It’s better than what I had on before, objectively speaking.”

“Sure. Objectively,” Hank snorted as the bittersweet feeling faded. The reminder of the shredded dress shirt gave him a thought, though. “Hey, Connor? Do an old man a favor, will you?” At the attentive look he received in reply, he continued, “Promise me you’ll take better care of yourself when we’re out there. Not that this hasn’t all been the time of my goddamn life, but I’m not sure I can do it again anytime soon.”

“I’ll agree to that, but only on one condition,” Connor replied, his expression shifting to something Hank definitely did _not_ trust.

Of all the androids in the country, he had to be partnered with the one who came up with conditions. Not to mention the whole “follows orders when he feels like it” thing.

Squinting, Hank crossed his arms and said, “Alright, what?”

Connor spread his remaining hand out as if making a generous offer. “I’ll be more careful, and you start eating better.”

“Wha—” Hank started, brows knitted together as the statement processed. “How the hell do my eating habits have anything to do with this?”

“During our time together, I’ve calculated that you consume an average of three times the daily recommended sodium intake for an adult man your age. In addition, the cheeseburgers you’re so fond of contain—”

“What sort of life does a man live if he’s denied a fucking cheeseburger?” Hank protested. He pointed an accusing finger. “That’s no kind of life I want.”

Connor was unperturbed. “That’s my offer, Lieutenant. _Someone_ has to look out for you,” he stated.

Once again, Hank found himself at a loss for words, his mouth hanging open as he struggled to form a suitable retort. The seconds ticked by in silence until, coming up empty, he had to settle for the first thing that came to mind. “You know, you don’t have to call me...nevermind,” he said, arm falling. He sighed. “Okay, I’ll try. But I can’t promise I’m gonna turn into a vegetarian.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Connor said, visibly pleased with himself. “You could always try eating more fish, although…” he tugged at the shirt he was wearing and smirked, “I can’t say if it’ll be so good you’ll flip.”

Hank chuckled at that. “Yeah, we’ll see. Now, come on. You can sleep here for tonight,” he said, gesturing to the bed. “First thing in the morning, we’ll get you taken care of.”

Rather than step forward, Connor tilted his head, eyes narrowed.

Hank frowned and gave the bed a once-over. It didn’t _look_ dirty. “What?”

“Lieutenant,” he said, “are you suggesting we sleep together?”

Hank almost choked. “No! Christ, why the fuck would you—”

“Because when they programmed me to integrate well with humans, I don’t think that’s what they intended.”

“For fuck’s sake, Connor, that is _not_ what I meant! I have a goddamn couch, in case you forgot,” Hank sputtered. He opened his mouth to continue with _where do you pick up on these things_ and _are all androids programmed with their brains in the gutter,_ but he caught the humorous glint in Connor’s eyes and the smile creeping across his face.

He deflated with a disgruntled huff. Over the years, he’d had a lot of long days, but this had to be one of the longest. At least if the kid was joking around, it meant he was feeling better. “Very funny, smartass,” Hank said. “Now just lie down and get some rest.”

This time, he listened, making his way to the bed and sliding under the covers. As Hank started to bundle up a spare blanket for himself, though, Connor commented, “While this is appreciated, Hank, it isn’t entirely necessary. Androids can recharge standing up if needed.”

“Humor me,” Hank replied.

And that settled it—with a “goodnight, Connor,” he shut the door and stepped into the hallway.

Although collapsing on the couch sounded like the best thing in the world right now, Hank forced himself to dig out his old first-aid kit from the bathroom cabinet. Thanks to Connor, he’d received more bruises than anything else during the attack. It didn’t take long to clean up and bandage the wounds that’d bled earlier.

Finally, with everything taken care of, Hank lumbered into the living room and shooed Sumo off the couch. Dropping onto it, he tugged the blanket over himself and hoped it would be at least a few hours before the sunrise woke him.

But, of course, nothing in his life could be that easy.

Every inch of him wanted to rest except, it seemed, his brain. Despite his best efforts to relax and sink into the couch cushions, Hank’s thoughts kept circling back to the ambush that night. Over and over, he watched a bat covered in barbed wire, meant for him, scrape across Connor’s chest, or heard the cracking, groaning sound as one of them tore through his arm.

All he’d been able to do was fire round after round as the snow was stained an unnatural blue in mere minutes. Maybe it’d been enough, but it didn’t stop the ghosts of panic that still made Hank’s chest tight as he recalled the brief, horrifying moment when Connor had fallen to the ground and ceased moving.

Cursing, he threw the blanket off and stood. On the floor, Sumo lifted his head and yawned, watching his owner with mild interest.

Hank padded back to the bedroom and eased the door open. In the darkness, he could just make out the blue glow of Connor’s LED against the pillow. The sight instantly relaxed him. Slipping inside, he shut the door again and crept across the room, freezing every time it seemed like Connor might wake up.

After what felt like minutes, he managed to reach the armchair that sat next to the bed without making any noise. Hank settled into it, still watching Connor for any sign of consciousness. Finding none, he leaned back and at last began to feel drowsiness overtaking him. His eyes slid closed, the faint light providing all the assurance he needed that no matter how bad things had gotten, they’d both survived.

 

* * *

 

 The next morning found Hank freezing his ass off on a bench outside the nearest android repair center. Although the place offered a handful of plastic chairs inside, it also served as a one-stop shop for spare parts and other android maintenance necessities. After yesterday, the sight of it all lining the illuminated walls made something in Hank’s gut twist.

So, since they’d stood firm on not allowing him into the repair room, he’d elected to take his chances with the chill instead. The air biting at his skin was easier to deal with. Some of the snow had melted thanks to a sunny, cloudless day, but he’d still been able to see his breath when they’d left the house that morning.

It was a good thing they had the day off due to shift rotations, because Hank had been awoken by golden sunlight filtering into his bedroom several hours after his alarm would’ve gone off. Checking the time would mean bending down to search his pants pockets from yesterday; it could wait. Massaging a crick in his neck, he’d noticed that not only was the bed in front of him empty, but the comforter had been straightened out and folded at the top, the pillows fluffed and placed neatly alongside each other.

Stretching as he wandered out of the room, Hank had to wonder if CyberLife included a housekeeping protocol as a standard in all of their androids. The smell of coffee wafting from the kitchen seemed to indicate that they did. Or, he mused, maybe it had nothing to do with programming or code, like he’d been assuming for so long. Maybe Connor had just felt like it.

The android in question awaited him in the kitchen, sitting at the table and fidgeting with a bottle cap he’d found. He sat up straighter than he had the night before, and seemed more alert. At the sound of Hank’s footsteps, he looked up and smiled. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, morning. What time is it?” Hank asked, pouring himself a mug of coffee.

“It’s 8:32. I would’ve woken you, but you looked like you needed the rest,” Connor said as he continued to flip the cap between his fingers. “You know, you should really buy yourself more groceries. I intend to hold you to your promise.”

Hank took a sip from his mug before answering. “Long as you hold up your end, too.”

From there, Connor had supplied directions to the closest location that could repair him, and the two set off within the hour. Now, as he rubbed his hands together and blew into them, Hank was beginning to wonder just how much maintenance Connor needed. Every time the doors slid open to let out yet another person carrying their purchases in a biodegradable bag, or someone leading their newly fixed android away, his concern grew. He’d never been good at the uncertain period between broken and mended.

As if picking up on his thoughts, the doors opened once again, and Connor stepped out of the building. With a new arm and CyberLife-issue jacket, he looked the same as always, save for the neon atrocity he still wore in place of the usual white dress shirt.

Hank found himself caught between laughing and the tight-throated feeling the sight had given him the first time. “So, you feeling better?” he asked, standing and brushing off his pants.

“In a manner of speaking. I’ve been restored to 100% functionality,” Connor replied. “You know, you could have gone somewhere and come back later.”

“What, and left you by yourself?” Hank said, heading for the crosswalk. “Not a chance.”

They lapsed into silence then, entering a park across the street. With the spaces on the road full, they’d had to leave the car some distance away. The winding concrete path through the snow-laden trees provided a convenient shortcut. As the sun continued its ascent, the snowdrifts on either side of them glistened, untouched.

“You know,” Connor said, “I haven’t had the chance to thank you, Hank. And I don’t mean just for bringing me here. Anyone else would’ve left me in the street, or replaced me with a new model. Even now, part of me says that should’ve been what happened.” He paused, considering his words. “I was programmed to complete a mission. I’m not... _supposed_ to care about what becomes of me in the process. But you always have. So, thank you. For looking out for me, and not treating me like just another machine.”

“Always knew you had to come around eventually,” Hank replied, pretending like it didn’t feel like his chest was about to burst. On impulse, he reached out and ruffled Connor’s hair, then used the same arm to pull him into a half-hug. Exhaustion robbed him of his usual repertoire of quips and deflections; when a grin threatened to spread across his face, he let it. “You’ve never been like a typical android, Connor. You’re more than that,” he said. Then, looking at him out of the corner of his eye, Hank continued, “So this never happens again, understand? This old man can only take so much.”

Connor smiled at him. “I promised, didn’t I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my friends who were willing to give me input while I was writing this! Also shout-out to the Blade Runner 2049 soundtrack for being the perfect music for writing in this universe.


End file.
